Repetition
by MilkBeanCat76
Summary: The heart grows fonder as the mind grows older. They walk across four seasons.
1. Summer

_Summer_

_She is better now. _

_If a younger self – say a flustered high schooler edition – had beheld the fruit of such moonshine she would have barely been able to comprehend its plausibility. Kaho no longer marvels. If anything, her dream had been quixotic, but the realization of it more so. _

_An impecunious student scores concerts. An impassioned aficionado rises above seasoned prodigies. This is the nature of surprises. It comes to the most undeserving of ingrates. _

i.

Summer is a manic pixie dream girl.

She is leaning across the open windows, blowing pollen onto kitchen counters. In her laughter her full skirts swish. Wispy breath unfurls across neon-slicked grass.

And when she is truly in full swing, she courts the west wind. Or this is how Kaho will remember it, as an imperceptible change. When it clicks into place, her muffins are studded with flaxseed, and the wind has swept past her door leaving the hot air panting in its wake. This is the way with the best sort of surprises – they are unexpected.

When she opens the door to Len she is exclaiming. The crown muffins have risen magnificently to the occasion. Somewhere, someplace, summer grinned, single-dimpled. So perhaps this is the best part – when her eyes widen, when her heart swells. This is when summer teases involuntary squeals from Kaho, laughing. Summer sends Len to her doorstep, only mildly bedraggled from fearsome turbulence. Even her preconceived knowledge does not dim this surprise. Waiting for him, even if she swallows growing anticipation oceans of distance, was complicated. If anything it has completely stripped apart her defensive mechanisms and she is open, the way so many people refuse to be. Summer likes Kahoko. Summer will do this, because Kahoko has caught her fleeting, ephemeral attention. Besides, she likes games.

So this is modelled exactly the way summer likes it, toying with the joy and sadness. Summer likes the memories best, of tentatively shared ice creams and ensuing, stuttering silence. Summer stomps spike-heeled tantrums across their date, a drizzly overcast sky as the two of them conversed. But most of all, summer loves to bring in the present. Len, a gift loaned for the sake of more memory keepsakes.

Kaho whispers. You're back.

x

And back he is. They sit on the couch, Len rumpled and silent from airplane turbulence. She loves this. She has reached through her apartment door and felt him, living and inches away, so she holds on.

"What?" he asks eventually when he meets her unrelenting gaze. Years ago she would have stuttered, cowering from the impatience in his stoic expression. She knows better now.

"I'm just really happy that you're back," she responds, her face growing hot. Okay, she still has a few things to learn about composure.

To her surprise, so did he. Red sweeps his ears when he ducks his head, and the silence – what used to make her bumble and panic – fills her with joy.

"Only for a couple of days," he says finally.

"I know. Don't you have that Suzenn Lynch recital in the Czech Republic? And masterclasses after that."

He shrugs. "You've memorized my schedule."

She has not – this is from harried deliberations over the extent of his stay agonizingly, trying to milk hours from their packed schedules. Compromises and reschedules have been struck, and still they have only the little time shared with Len's numerous engagements, and with Kaho's recording sessions and classes. So they'd decided that he would shack up in her multipurpose room ("it's not _improper_, it's a practice room/study/library/gym") and visit their parents for lunch and dinner ("we'd really love to see you two").

"About your schedule. I was talking to your mum yesterday, and I thought maybe I'd leave you to her, they've missed you a lot. You haven't seen them in months."

Len frowns. "There's you too."

"Yeah, but I'm over there yakking about music and your baby photos all the time, it barely makes any difference. Besides," and Kaho smiles devilishly. "You wouldn't want to be around when that happens."

He scowls with unpleasantness that often left its receiver flummoxed. Kaho almost forgot the way she used to flinch. Now she leans in and kisses his cheek. When she pulls away it is with extreme reluctance.

"I haven't seen you in months too." Len says. It is so matter-of-fact and sweet; Kaho almost dissolves into tears as she tries to tease him. Instead:

"It's not really the same thing, is it?"

There is a pause, and regret creeps onto both their faces. This time, he is the one that leans forward, eyes softened. They are slower than their time together allows, and this time neither pulls away.

x

This is how she knows Len, with their fingers interlaced in chaste and demure subtlety. This is how she knows him, from the hesitant glance before tentatively sampling a muffin ("it's good!" he insisted as he set it down), from the meticulously catalogued contents of his case, from his silence as Kaho scurried away to secretively change. She doesn't know him by his sudden acceptance of tardiness in the way he drew her into an embrace as they left the apartment. She gladly accepts this development – he wouldn't succumb to public displays of overt affection, but he had been the one to reach for her, as they left and now, for her hand, as they strolled towards his family home.

People change in the most unexpected of ways. She will not be complacent enough to believe that she had elicited this, but she wonders if the distance has only brought them closer. They had not left answers when he left for Vienna, maintaining epistolary exchanges. Even that had surprised her. Comparatively she had never believed – imagined she certainly had – that when he returned he would seek her out or that they would sit and talk, for ages as it seemed, and emerged standing inches closer to each other. And even then, she had not once dared to hope for the length of their settlement, or that they would both smile at each other. Well, albeit the fact that his smile was visible only by the viewer's squinting. She is still grateful, for what has blossomed from their brief dalliance with a musical competition. Her heart swells, this time almost with giddy furore.

Kaho dispels Len's quizzical glance by regaling him with stories of her intensive violin classes, and the monthly recitals she attended. The likes of her mentor, critical and questioning, had driven greater musicians to his door. In a curious turn of events he had driven her exponential improvement.

"The caliber I'm chasing is impossible. I hear that a lot. Most elite spots are tailored for the child prodigies, after all."

He listens, and she sees the gears of his mind moving, formulating his best response.

"Am I to reassure you or," Len replies, his voice flat.

Kaho laughs. "Speak your mind."

"It's unlikely. But," he pauses. She looks away, purely because their gazes have snagged far too many times the morning, the unspoken words hanging heavy. "You're equally unlikely."

Kaho has to agree on the unlikelihood of their relationship. There they were, hands clasped and traveling down a meandering pavement where ivies tangle and bonsai plants line. Summer is almost in full swing, the pavement scorching mockingly, dappling streaks of blinding laughs. Far ahead the weather gleefully waltzes in her spike-heeled boots. She watches the couple.

"A lot could happen," Kaho admits. "But—"

"Happening only comes after," Len interjects.

Kaho nods, pleased that they share the same vein of thought. Agreeing with Len was awfully easy, to draw closer and to smile. She loves the predictability of the day, loves her acquaintance with tea and conversation with Hamai Misa, a woman with whom she shared surprising rapport (Len is, perhaps, slightly chagrined at that), loves how her family ruffles and welcomes Len in signature chaos.

"What?" Len asks, for the second time this same morning. They are both dressed down and casual now.

"I'm just really happy you're back." She tells him, again.

ii.

When they cross the apartment doors again it's about eight. Both are tired, Kaho only slightly weary and Len exhausted, clutching the bag of cakes he had stubbornly insisted on carrying. It was valiant of him. But with a pang she sees how haggard he is, gaunt and jet-lagged. Kaho bites her tongue, swallowing the nagging she'd always spewed over nightly calls. She does what she had longed to do, and runs her hand down his face instead.

They sit on the couch. After showering they both simmer in muggy heat, Len silent as Kaho talks, animated. There is nothing profound about tired nights where the time is too early (and little) to retire. Looking, hearing and thinking is laborious – summer has fogged the city with a veil of humidity – but Kaho sees Len do it regardless.

"Hey," she says finally. "It's been a long day. Go to sleep."

He nods, by default cold and blasé, rubbing his temples. "Thanks."

"Goodnight, then," Kaho says, grasping for appropriate words. "I'd wake you in the morning, but…"

Len chuckles lightly. "I daresay I'll manage."

"Right," she confirms. Tentatively she pecks his forehead. "Goodnight."

"Yes," Len says, rising to his feet. Kaho remains, shuffling pieces of theory and annotated scoresheets. Already, her thoughts wander – the few footsteps away are too far.

x

She has become disciplined, but not entirely so. At ungodly hours she pins the blame on abnormal mental states and she slips into Len's room. The dark envelops her in seeming soundlessness. She hovers over the makeshift bed. The curtains are drawn, and the dark-smeared corners are vaguely sinister.

She listens to the even breathing, the night sunken and deflated to usher in some semblance of coolness. The city is trembling with the fervor. In the morning summer will siege warfare, teasingly, pollens floating at her behest. But in the exempted pocket of Kaho's room, all is tranquil.

So finally she whispers the one wretched complaint. "I missed you." Her voice hangs in unheard wisps. It's pathetic.

The way her words resound, and bounce off the walls back into her unexpectant ears are what draw the final crushing blow to her tear ducts.

"I missed you too."

x

_Hello, you. _

_Come here. _

Summer will snigger softly, and she will leave the windowsill. "This is improper" – the single statement, hanging as if summer herself had said it (truth betold, there's no telling), where the undulating curtain stills and pools of moonlight dance. But summer will listen, and she will smile. It will be secret.

ii.

When summer walks into the morning, she dresses to impress. She rings the doorbell and scurries away. She brings wakefulness – with a start, and Kahoko jolted awake. In Europe summer is mellower, slightly tired from temper tantrums and forced into the heeled sophistication from where poetry praised its beauty. She settles for unfurling petals across stained glass windows. The particular apartment retained its cool. In the morning it was rare to find Len asleep after Kaho was up, but their ringed hands were still knotted together.

This apartment was not the same one summer remembers from all those years ago. They are strangers going by the same names, summer thinks. The room is meticulously arranged with objects of whimsy, a table left with a single baby's bib. Kaho passed a glance over it en route to the stretch of common space. The next door she opened was painted white, and opened to a chasm revealing a mobile affixed over a wooden crib. A mysterious assessment was passed, and she closed the door with an inexplicably gentle expression. When she returned to her bedroom her weight sank against the mattress.

These moments were soundless, artless. It was not unbeautiful, but it drew a blank in the mind, one that demanded the compensation of thought, each of which seemed quite inconsequential, until the owner of such a mind thrashed and squirmed uncomfortably, waking the other occupant of her room.

The season was ending. Kaho tugged away. She wanted to bake flaxseed muffins in this season. Muffins were best with a crown peaking over its mould, and flaxseed was an awfully foreign ingredient. Kaho didn't remember using it before. Perhaps it would surprise her.


	2. Winter

_Winter_

_Winter is cold. The sky falls in snowflakes. It is very windy. My mother sits. My father plays his violin – I play too. Winter is good._

ii. _winter is cold._

_"I'm doing fine in Vienna - mother has made sure of that, she's only called me about a billion times."_

It is cold. She thinks this may explain the defensive mechanism adopted across the streets. Everyone walks the weather in haute couture – peacoats over sweaters, trench coats over jumpers. Storefronts are all about the many charms of alpaca wool. And the newest arm accessories – armaments of turkeys and gift bags and new clothes. These creatures are wrapped in layers of insulating material, huddling close and making merry just long enough for the sake of pilfering warmth and plundering affection. This is how they do it, usher in the festive cheer. The snow is invasive, rattling into the corners of boots, rattling into the corners of quavering voices. She is quite alone here. Greeting cards from Japan after its batter and wear from air mail don't quite snuggle the receiver the same way, though she appreciated the gesture.

_"Yeah, I do wish that I could see England now."_

This is how she hears it, even if the voice on the other end does not mention that. The wind is crackling across his chapped lips, leaving but a ghost of him to crackle across the line all these miles away. The thought made her strangely maudlin. She wondered if he could hear the repressed longing in her voice. She was almost an open book.

_"Of course I wish I could see you too, but that's besides the point. One _wishes_ for a lot of things."_

It is cold. She can hear the edge in his voice as he answers. She crunches through the layers of ice and human, catching the parting sounds from her phone. She hangs up, and gazes out of the window then, smartphone poised for a photograph of idyllic scenery. She appreciates the merits of amateur editing. Filters allow reality to be shapeshifted as desired, with a bit of an artistic eye and leisure time (she didn't really have much of either).

_"Listen, I'm all right. I need to go now, though. Sorry."_

But she has the breadcrumbs from a harried lunch on her coat, and a late appointment with her friends. She stomps through the crowd in increasingly wet boots – her scarf had been pretty; translucent when she had bought it. Now it was soaked through with the season's icy compliments. A woolen one might have better serviced her, and the snow is crunching into muddy bits far too quickly, a disintegrating sheet of ice. No duvet here. There is poetry in humans, and beauty in the bokeh of streetlamps melting into the atmosphere, but she moves along quickly. After all it is quite cold. Lately, she has shuffled her footsteps more, she has been a little more tired. She wonders why, even as she draws her bow for

"This is just the way things are."

iii. _the sky falls in snowflakes._

When I was willed into existence it was by literary plot device. This was the rhetoric, the repetition of Jack Frost and faeries enough that some sort of half-being would emerge to breathe the romance into the skittering snowflakes that all would huddle and whisper sweet things to another. To embitter everything else so every volatile relationship stabilizes, if only briefly, enough to say hello.

There are many things to do. I don't remember Kahoko or Len. They occupy only one point in infinity.

iv. _it is very windy._

Hello, you.

I saw you again, you know. You stood in the shadows backstage, moments before you would walk out into the spotlight. I got hopeful that this was a secret, but it doesn't really count when it's televised, right? This is only the fanatic speaking.

Although, I am quite manic, you know! I have played many pieces to indulge in imagined melancholy. I don't think they are cliché. Icons become used for a reason.

I go to classes and play some more, obscure pieces of more technical level.

The streets are too polished to look like Japan.

It's an inconvenient time to wish for watching the sunrise hand in hand. I don't know why I'm saying this. Don't pay any attention to all these wishful rambling. I have a fever. You were right about practicing in the foyer at night. I still play, though; if anything the hours up are extra hours of work. It's all too bad, especially with the merriment of vacation and all that. I'm on my way to class, and the wind is rattling through the rooms and through my head.

Oh, what am I saying? It's funny but I think I miss you.

Me

x

_Received and read your letter of Thursday. Are you looking after yourself? Please do. I'm remaining in Vienna indefinitely. It will be at least until spring. See you._

iiv. _my mother sits_

HIPSTERS, the storefront had proclaimed, un-trademarked, and written – and flaking – across a chalkboard. Kahoko stopped long enough to wonder if smiling was overtly dramatic (it was), and closed the remaining footsteps home.

She almost wished she had stopped the extra seconds – what was she to say, after all? Len looked at her for all of three seconds before returning to his book, wordless. And this was getting especially familiar. Awkward, she dropped the paper bags onto the coffee table, removing its contents. The theory books, contracts, and scores tipped onto her hands.

"Hello," she said. Cringed. She twisted the silver band against her ring finger.

"Hello." He parroted softly back towards her, the intellectual designs of his library book winning his attention. She was abashed of how relieved she felt, now striding towards the kitchen.

x

Dinner didn't offer a deviant, even as Len set aside his book – two bowls of ramen, sprinkled with seaweed, replete with two laden tablespoons of tension.

They sat facing each other on the fold table, quietly scraping cutlery against the side of the ceramic bowls, stopping once to enquire about each other's day ("The book was interesting, thank you" "Orchestra practice for the ballet went well")

At the end she was spoken to another time, to be thanked for the meal and a delegation. He would do the dishes.

"It was nothing," it was nothing that they had not exchanged before. It was still pleasant, but also stiffened by thick, choking formality, the way that they had yet to speak to each other for years. "Would you like some help?"

They both felt fools, and still they kept it up, each in impenetrable fogs to another. Her ring was going to get shinier than the day it first slid onto her finger.

"It's fine." He responded.

x

They did this routine varyingly, each night extending and bleeding onto the other. Christmas came and past, and the year draws close to the end with this.

One day he says this: "You could take the ring off if it's uncomfortable."

"What?"

"Your ring. You keep twisting it."

"Oh. It's nothing. It's fine." She said, feeling her eyelids flutter in rapid succession.

It was only when she was alone against the kitchen sink did she let the words sink into her mind, the same way barbed wire hugs tightly across bared skin. The sharp sting was almost a relief, right up until the precise moment of the universe in which a hand is rendered useless.

And a careless hand is the cruelest destructor, precisely because of this oblivion. Something smashed too loud for her liking, the sound of reality that demanded attendance. _I'm okay. I'm okay. _Kahoko barely heard the cacophony and she realized that under the wavering image of the room someone was crying.

After that there isn't the room anymore, just black and somebody's plaid shirt.

Tsukimori had realized something too. In the space of her silhouette hovering against the threshold of the kitchen and the resounding crash. Something broke. And he had been expecting it. But when he entered he realized that there are more ways to shatter, and Kahoko had certainly done that, opened her finger against the untamed ridges of glass shards.

"I'm okay," she told him. Only she wasn't really looking at him.

"Come here," he said, walking closer. She gingerly extended her hand. "What were you doing?"

The cut was long and jagged but not deep, the blood leaking to stream across the smooth ridges of her ring. "You're going to have to take the ring off."

"No," her answer was abrupt, shrill. "I'm okay."

He reached for her then, and the ripple effect was magnified. Kahoko recoiled from him as if he had struck her, face crumpling.

"I've upset you," Tsukimori murmured, guilt striking him too late as tears streaked her face. "I didn't mean—"

"I'm okay," she said again, sobbing in earnest now, snatching her hand away.

There was really nothing left to do. So he did the only instinctual thing – the same that she had done for him, all this short while ago – reached out and braced her in.

He hadn't realized how small and sharp she had become. Nor had he realized how heartbreaking it was to hold on to someone so desperately shrinking away.

"Better?" Tsukimori asked, drawing away. There was no other sound in the house. Kahoko held up her finger, swathed in gauzy bandages, stained with a slow, growing spread of red. She shrugged. "Thank you."

For the first time he blinked, reconsidered his passivity.

"Be careful. You're on regular performances," Tsukimori admonished instead, sounding sterner than he had intended. "Though, you already know that."

Kahoko nodded. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

"It's nothing." Outside, the wind roared. They were as alone as a barricaded hut in the mountains. Even with the remaining populace living and breathing in the spice of their social spheres, they could not walk past this "I'll just finish up the dishes."

"I can do it," she insisted, looking up at him.

It was as if neither knew the other any longer.

"Don't be stubborn," he sighed, retrieving the broom, the chink of shards tumbling together quickly with each flick. There was silence from her turned back, turning completely still. He continued, tipping the broken plate onto the trashcan.

"I hate this."

The statement was deadly quiet, sharp. Kahoko's back remained angled towards him. "I hate this," she repeated again, this time slightly louder, but equally sharp. "I don't like washing the dishes!"

He stared at her back. "Well, I could always do it."

He could see her neck flush dusky red and she stiffened, looking even more uncomfortable than she had already been. "You're missing the point. I hate doing it alone. It's so quiet around here. It's like the house is empty."

Her voice hitched, tremulous.

It gave him pause. Overhead, the ceiling shielded the oncoming storm with wholehearted denial.

x

And then (_and then, _suddenly_) _there is a pressure around her waist, a chin resting cool against her shoulder. Hands snaking around her again, this time less out of imminent necessity but regret, a body pressing lightly against her back.

x

In snow globes ballerinas are perfectly poised in the fragility of their snowy domes, looking out with poise and contentment. She had been given a globe before – beautiful, and thoughtless, throwaway cash. Limbs, if anything, aren't quite motorized. When she spins around her eyes are already glazed with tears.

The snowstorm can shatter. They will wash the dishes together.

vi. _my father plays the violin_

(She's burning up.)

_Why was she in Europe? The place was curious. Faces, high cheekbones against tall frames. Everything here loomed, the darkness of the tortured artists – they have all played Carmen Fantasy fluently before she knew its name. So why her?_

(Wait.)

_They all have lied; there are bounties of talent, there are predispositions and geniuses who have all found their way into the spotlight, and still it gives way for precious few; get everything you own and give it up for a chance. Maybe you will one day accompany these recognized peers._

(ICU.)

_And they were only faces – in the end, there is no recognition. They are dust, and they are soul, and they are unexplained, so finite that they fumble with their limited time as they struggle to use it._

(Go, go.)

_There are dreams, dreams that are lusted after, endorsed by the talented that have achieved them. By pump of fist and by serendipity, by unlikely success stories. And this cruel ethos is imparted to legions. They will give their time for the precious spot._

(Hurry _quickly_ faster _now_)

_Why? What was theirs to give? What was theirs to take? What were they but embers blazing emotionally towards a sputtering end? What was there to stop them? What was there to give and take so much grief?_

(It's not your time.)

_Only ripples, intersecting wavelengths, begetting motion. In the beginning, there is silence and in the end there will again be silence. But we are only making motions that end and it is hopeless._

(Stay here.)

_Nothing lasts. But still – so stubbornly! – They insist upon unfolding, events upon events on words and emotions, extraneous and inexplicable and beautifully tragic in their transience. Perhaps we should care, perhaps we shouldn't. Debate on; perhaps your mind is the one built for answering this or perhaps it isn't – will you ever know? Should you sit around waiting to find out?_

(Do not go gently into the good night/Rage, rage against the dying of the light.)

_And then there are eyes, looming._

vii. – _I play my violin too_

"How's she?"

"The little one is well. Your mother stopped over for a sojourn."

"How is mother?"

"Oh, she's wonderful, and quite enamored with Chisato, like you and I are. They came to the ballet today. Waited backstage the way you used to do. I suppose we ought to do that interchangeably now?"

"Shh. Let's talk about Chisato."

"Yes, let's."

"Didn't she attend her first recital today? I can't believe I wasn't around to see that."

"It can't be helped. But don't worry, she's not going to begrudge you for it."

"I miss her."

"I've got it all on video, I'll email you. It went swimmingly – you'll see, though I do think—Well. I'm a bit worried."

"About the little one's talent? It may just be parental exaggeration."

"You _know _it isn't just that. I'd even hope that Chisato is untalented. The amount of discipline and finesse she's showing is terrifying. You know, I don't want her talent. I don't want her to play violin, not in this way that will chew her up and spit her out in evaluating just how much talent she can possess."

"You could to speak to mother about it."

"Oh, but I have."

"And?"

"She told me que sera, sera. Which is lovely and apt for the little one, though I do wish that there were more we could do for her. Len, I took one look at her performance and I wanted to pull the plug. This is the reason why we refused to have her taught by us - but it's still happening."

"Chisato will not give it up."

"I know. And I've seen and experienced so much of it that I want to strip away this choice from her. It's selfish, because I of all people should understand the brilliance of choosing to play, every time in practice. I should understand how amazing it is to reach for excellence and find the talent to advance."

"I think we should let it go. Time will come to it. And when it will be happens we'll both be around."

"Or she might have to face it alone, it's frightening. It sounds a lot like passivity."

"There's a balance between acceptance and embracing the unknown and passivity."

"Do you ever think that we wouldn't have gone through all that needless heartache if we had just cared a little less? If we had lacked just an ounce of that talent to push ourselves for all those auditions? And it might have been so much easier if we didn't stand on equal footing in ability."

"But to reconsider possibilities is to travel down many different routes. The one now is the one set in stone precisely because of the choices we made. Right or wrong won't change them."

"Though it certainly bugs me all day and makes me wonder what is the better route to undertake now."

"I like my decisions. Even if returning to violin was excruciating, and Chisato's ability scares me as much as it scares you. I love both."

"Hm."

"You know, my childhood wasn't as miserable as I made it out to be. And I'd like to think I've turned out fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"We'll see, Len. She's your daughter, after all."

"…I'm proud."

FOOTNOTE:

xi. _Winter is cold_

She was green. (Not her reindeer sweater, she was actually green.) And then she was relieved that she didn't have to be green all alone. Which would be rather sad, really, to be accompanied solely by screaming headlines and overwhelmed inboxes to shirk.

"You would've thought that the weeks would wear them out, what with Christmas and all," Tsukimori Kahoko sighed. "There is not one photograph of a lavish wedding to fixate themselves on."

She rounded on her company, who had long been watching her with detached amusement. "I told you coming down to the theater wasn't a good idea."

He shrugged. He had materialized after the ballet's premiere, an unexpected public appearance, stood in the long corridor as she emerged from the pit, violin in hand and cardigan pulled quickly about her shoulders. She had stopped in surprise before throwing an arm around his neck – rendering his sharp gasp for an intake of air as she'd released him only to lean in for a kiss. That's when the moment had ended – the next day, when online articles and newspaper prints went insane. They were to learn; prestigious premieres rarely offered necessary privacy, even for the most secret of marriages.

Kahoko glared. "There are conspiracy theories that even Tsuchiara-kun has written in about. It's ridiculous."

"I especially like the one where you are absorbing my ability through witchcraft. They even have pictorial evidence."

Complete with bright yellow lettering against the computer, too.

"Ridiculous," she sighed; setting down the letter she had in hand. "What about the ones about love potions? I thought they were pretty good."

"This was a mistake," Len said noncommittally, eyes on his computer screen. He had enrolled in several online college courses and seemed to be breezing through it.

"I know," she said, resting a hand against his arm, newly functional as it darted rapidly across the keyboard. "Never should've agreed to marry you. I've had to see you for more than I ever have in two years."

Len almost…smirked. "Are you complaining?"

"Now that the best time has passed, yeah. Here's when the marriage goes downhill and we turn into haranguing bats."

He rolled his eyes and pushed aside the stack of Shakespeare against the table. It surprised her how quickly the apartment had taken to submit to Len's hands – organized, all detailed hues and neat shelving, and strangely artistic in its categorization. He continued typing. "You're terrible."

"Yup."

They stayed this way, Kahoko's bare feet rested atop his lap – the sound of keys being tapped and crackling letters making their way through into the paper shredder. There was a softer side to him now, something thawed and something fissuring, breaking apart. It had been foolish to accept the cool, angry façade, and more so as a star-crossed lover, or a relentless competitor.

"I don't understand you," A light frown creased his forehead as she shuffled letters.

She stopped, reaching for his fingers. They were rusty, and they creaked the way mechanical compartments struggled to rework itself into function – they had played together for the first time in months. They were working towards something, yet to be known.

Still, perhaps it was the unknown call of creation that was so alluring. They were ever-changing, this only constant throughout the start and end of time – and yet, it is not reason enough for fear.


	3. Spring

_Spring_

i.

"Hino-san. Why do you play the violin?"

He has appeared all but an hour ago, so decidedly rebellious of coincidences on her doorstep. The wind had blew his hair tousled, a sight almost stranger than his presence. The young and crazy have done stranger things, but still it puzzled her.

Still, her perplexed mind strained to conjure a perfunctory response, the elusive strand of careless acknowledgment so natural to the talented – they played simply _because_. It wouldn't have been a foreign expression on his face. Yet the ball, tossed to her, required trickier, showier maneuvers. She felt like a foal stumbling the likes of classier, sturdier mares.

Her reasons have been fuzzy at best. First it had been the cursory obligation of magic, the doing of Lilli. Without the slightest effort she was able to play – still, even then, there was a fine distinction between being able to play and the playing ability. It may have been a matter of respect for the other competitors, and then out of the desire to catch up. And then, slowly, she had come to grow into this element. It was no necessity – unlike prize-winning virtuosos she was untalented, and the violin was not her box of jewels. She played because of want, to possess a collection of shaky but improving renditions of pieces she had not written but still belonged to her. To her – and so many others.

She told him this, about the fata, about the violin. His response was swift and not altogether unsurprising – soundless acknowledgment of withheld judgment. She was so relieved at this assurance that she let it settle before asking.

"Why do you ask, Tsukimori-kun?"

It might have been the makings of the shtick about old times. Or perhaps he couldn't conceal thoughts around her, things he wouldn't have imagined vocalizing spoken along the same stretch of beach that they would come to walk many times – more in the future. He did not yet know this, but the feeling lay dormant.

"I wonder," he said. "There are so many talented violinists accompanying a single prodigy. It seems punishment unworthy of all that dedication."

His education had yet to be concede – the lines on his face were sharper, his intellect keener. There were things that she couldn't begin to comprehend, her in her accelerated programs at the music conservatory.

"And yet, we still play." She shook her head.

"Now is hardly the time to reflect on these ambiguities. But practice and playing have been ingrained so long, it's almost a justification of being." He frowned. "I'm not interested in the merits of normalcy"—they both smiled at that—"but I'm not sure this is _my_ dream as much as it is a dream, an intention natural to all."

"School has been hard on you," she said.

She wasn't about to ask him to question his heart, or his violin – there were realisations that never dawned, questions always incompletely answered. There were things (there were _many _things) that she was incapable of doing. But, she was learning, though she did not yet know, the feeling lay dormant. She loved him – not yet, but someday, someday she would.

Feelings, after all, grow.

x

"Tsukimori-kun. Would you be so kind as to play a duet with me?"

ii.

_Let yourself in, _he had told her when he tipped the keys into her hands, so much smaller than his. Still, he couldn't help but do a double take when she folded herself through a small chasm of the open door, taking him up on exactly what he left an invitation for her to.

He wasn't in the house, much either. He had left his conservatory and instead made residence in hotels splattering Europe, all the hotel rooms one and the same – beige, carpeted, affixed with luxuriously glassy windows, the loneliness of these stays. He was well accustomed to this – it was not with regret that the acknowledgment was made, but with acceptance. He rarely spent time with his orchestra; barely spoke to them, unable to meet their eyes.

Still, not catching anyone's eyes was made harder tenfold by the fact that most of the orchestra was mulling in his living room, making amiable chatter. It was spring, and he had not seen the faintest hint of Sakura petals. Instead, guests spoke to his manager, and his conductor debated newspaper reviews with the pianist. He had friends, the few that were currently otherwise engaged in conversation. Wives, and husbands, and children – hammering the piano, chattering over éclairs – they were clearly better acquainted with each other than he was with him, and again he wondered about snobbery. Out of their performance garb there were hippies, punkers, mascara and scarves everywhere. Legwarmers to combat the weather, and many coats draped.

And as he thought that, eyeing the exit of his own apartment more than was considered necessary, she'd appeared.

He'd seen the surprise on her face, at the turnout of the gathering, everyone with food and drinks in hand, the air-conditioning refined against unpredictable temperatures of the season. And then she had looked amused, a smile punctuating her face as she surveyed the room. He hadn't expected her appearance, shrugged when he'd been asked about his chosen companion – the rest with girlfriends, with loved ones, with children.

"Hello, you," she grinned, catching sight of his standout aloneness, with raised eyebrows. "Why are you such a recluse?"

"That's friendly," he responded sardonically, narrowly dodging a platter of hors d'oeuvres. He wouldn't say this, but he was glad to see her, after all the sporadic toasts everyone had been making, champagne glittering. He was always rather glad to see her.

But he was also hesitant to take her hand. He was ashamed of his fear, the appraising glances that surveyed a person, as impressions formed. As first impressions go, he wasn't sure where she would go wrong – she was beautiful – but understood the perceived undeserved recognition of her abilities. A hullabaloo had arisen over her acclaim and studies in England and professional disdain could hardly be unjustified.

The good news: everyone liked her. They did enjoy her presence, were impressed with her classical discography, with little of the snobbish seniority. And then, by extension, they had spoken to him, responded to his musings – they had debated Mozart lightly, and talked about musical experiences. And finally, he began to strike that precarious camaraderie.

The bad news:

"You two make a _wonderful _couple," the last guest remarked, again. "You're good for the bigwig."

"Oh, I assure you," Kahoko had laughed, a flush sweeping magnificently across her visage as the guest left.

After the door snapped shut she had flown across the room, laughing into his kiss and rested outstretched hands onto his shoulders. He smiled back, only somewhat more collected than she was at present. Something burgeoned, and grew. In time they might realize it. In the moment, though, they merely broke apart to clear the leftover dishes.

iii.

"Oho!" Fred cried. "So it's this one."

_He's very important to me, _Kahoko had told Fred before that. And while Astrid cooed Fred had rolled his eyes and told her _they always are. _And then he had consented that their attendance was inexcusably compulsory considering their marriage, considering her fallible choices. She had a suspicion that he considered this one of her mistakes, and probably one of the only times she was to openly contradict what he would have to say on the subject.

But she needn't have worried.

"You're that one," he responded with equal zeal – or lack thereof – as he nodded towards Fred, a strange expression on his face. It was a look of accustomed acknowledgment, his mysterious acquaintance with Fred punctuated only by exhaustion.

"So he's quick on the uptake," Fred remarked, extraordinary vocal chords put into good use.

"I thought this wasn't a good idea," Astrid sighed. "The boy is in the room too, you know."

"He's not quite anything now, is – _are you?" _He shot the question back at Len, who barely bristled.

"It's neither here nor there, sir."

His placid expression was deeply unsettling – she had long learnt that he did not hide behind facades or subterfuge; far from being so, he was forthcoming to a fault. This pallid acceptance was too genuine for her liking. He darted out of Kaho's gaze as he helped her onto her seat, before settling onto the adjacent chair. Fred, apparently, had a thing for mahogany and silverware, and they ate.

Fred was not an easy man – that much was evident. While Astrid in her eccentricity was somewhat mellow and passive-aggressive, retained shreds of a maternal stereotype, Fred had fully immersed himself into the role of a mad, grumpy intransigent with a vehement pleasure. Through carbonara he fired shots of insult across the table, and Kahoko paid more mind to the globs of tomato sauce gelatinized against the angel hair pasta.

"I can't cook," Astrid mouthed at her from across the table when they caught each other's eye.

Once, Kaho would've gesticulated to her companion and offered him to the butcher. Today she bared a smile back and shook her head, swirling stands of carbohydrates about her fork.

"So I take it you're good for nothing, now?"

"That's about what they say, sir."

"Nothing like an unemployed spoilt brat to spruce up your former industry, eh?" Fred chuckled, snorting. His fork screeched menacingly across his plate.

Len nodded, infuriatingly calm.

"He is hardly spoilt," Kaho said, the first rebuttal she had offered the evening – Fred looked delighted. She felt her eyebrows shoot up as Fred resumed his tyrannical monologue. The rest of the room listened to the table tennis match of tricky stunts ricocheting back and forth. There was something sunken in both men's features,

"I have watched you perform. First-rate musicians are third-rate beings, little prodigies conditioned for one sole purpose. Your circle is exclusive, and elite, and entirely struck apart by merit. So what does that make you now? You are only one in millions."

Somewhere Fred had stopped grinning – finishing instead with a glower, his fork clattering as he grabbed a napkin. There was silence. Attention returned to the plates.

"You're right, Alfred, I—"

_But that's quite enough. _

They looked at her then. "Let's not debate this."

"A bit of chatter does no harm." Fred said dismissively, making a sharp turn from the fleeting silence.

"There was no malice intended."

"That doesn't make appropriate dinner conversation," Kahoko retorted. "It's rude."

"But your boy doesn't mind." Fred pointed out, to quiet affirmation on Len's part. They had struck an obnoxious rapport. And in the flick of an eye – or _because _of the irritating flick of an eye, goodness knows, she was angry. Furious, with the gelatinous sheen of red splattered across the pasta, at Astrid's bemused uselessness, at the easy banter that passed between the two men, deprecating and blatantly made acceptable. She was seething.

"I do!" she snapped. "I mind that you're dashing criticism and _you _accept it like—"

"—a coward?" he asked. It had grown, if possible, even more quiet, and time drained from the room to a standstill, falling flowers frozen and the sky still impermeably dark.

"Why are you doing this to yourself? You are not a coward! You are not to _settle_ for anything. How could you? _I _know about you, and it's an insult to me that you should be submissive to these delusions. I see you, and you have never been unimportant."

His placid expression had frozen over, now giving way to something blank and carefully smeared clean in the wake of shattering debris – a survivor, watching the ashes fall and embers settle. So even as his mouth opened it made sense that Fred made a loud proclamation of 'Children!' as he disappeared into the narrow kitchen.

"Ah," said Astrid. "Dinner, at last."

x

"You know, not all of us need to be mended," Len told Kaho, finally. Something buzzed in the kitchen, preceded by a quick flick of a power outlet. A machine spat out its mechanical hums.

She bristled. "I've never seen you as broken. What do you take me for? You know, you don't have an ounce of faith in me. I am not enough – so why did you ask?" Something cracked in the kitchen, once, and then multiplied to four.

"Not this again," he said, weariness and exasperation creeping into his voice. "We've been through this before, Kahoko." Something sloshed in the kitchen, the sound of viscous liquid hitting glass bottom.

"And you've never answered me!" Something whirred, mixtures turning from soggy to craggy to smooth, lump-free. Something sizzled.

"I've told you that it was about time." More sizzling. A flop.

"That's not it!" she yelled back ('Now, now, dear' said Astrid). "You can't ask that and walk off. You don't _talk _to me." Sizzling. There was a smell of smoke that did not quite billow, but remained faintly and persistently detectable.

"Don't be ridiculous. I do talk to you." A dish on the table, its contents still emitting fumes of readiness. _Pancakes! _Fred announced, and Astrid tucked in.

"Then why are you always avoiding my eyes, drawing away, speaking in formalities? I'd thought otherwise in the winter, but nothing has changed since then." Fred invited them to pancakes, curiously withholding his usual conundrums.

"Perhaps it never would." They were not touching the pancakes.

"And so you're going to leave it at that? Don't you care?"

"About what?" he replied blandly, a hint of anger rising to his tone. "You insist that something is not right, that something has to be fixed. You see everything in incompletion. This not good enough for you, but it is _fine._"

In a motion so swift she had rose to meet his height, glaring back up at him. "I'm not about to explain something like again," she said finally. "I'm sick of this routine of ignoring each other."

x

The air was still frigid, the hardened, soured leftovers from winter not entirely thawing. The frost had cleared, but made its farewell sustained with lingering notes of coolness. And Kahoko trudged the pavement. The ribbons of harried break paid homage to the stairs from Fred's apartment. Like him, they were winding and excessively tedious.

"Kahoko. Wait up."

"Why, so you can be patronising? I'm not in the mood for philosophies." She snarled.

"You know, storming off is quite impulsive. And not especially creative, considering that anyone with a five-year-old maturity submits to that instinct."

The voice behind her was dry, amused despite its annoyance. It was in this way that the anger, raring and imploding in her chest, abruptly receded. Perhaps it was an exact balance of hormones that had invoked such rage, and in turn quelled only by a precise fluke of nuanced chords. She was no longer angry, even as she grasped for the dissipating edges of incensed justification.

"It's dramatic enough, though." She answered, stopping dead in her tracks. She turned.

And then they were both laughing, him with the slight rasp that he had developed, choking gasps of amusement as they stared at each other – prepared for an argument but not for the hilarity of the situation that had dawned upon them, on the state of suspended anger and self-imposed melancholy, and most of all for childishly stupid antics, the run-and-chase game, the stuff of pomp and indulgence.

"Let's not do that again," she suggested. "This has been quite embarrassing behavior. I'm sorry."

"Me too. Though your antics, in the company of Alfred Goldstein-Smith too, no less." He looked even more amused now.

She blinked. "Do you mean the British violinist who quit? He was an incredible musician, but what has he got to do with…" Len's eyebrows rose. "Oh. You are _kidding._"

"Alfred Goldstein-Smith." He nodded. "The violinist," she confirmed. He nodded, slightly smug but highly amused. "You are _kidding_."

"Oh, I wish I were."

"I just screamed at him! I've been listening to his little spiels and being tutored by him, and all this while—"

"—You're truly amazing." He said drolly. "Do you understand now?"

They had reached a playground, deserted by the chill of the night. He trailed behind, strains of a small smile strung along his face, as she bounded forward onto old rickety swings, laughing incredulously.

She'd only met him as she was playing the violin at that same playground. She had been practicing, and he'd stood and deigned to comment, and she had walked into his apartment, spoke to the recluse, and even made friends with his wife.

"The man likes you," Len said finally, as she began to undulate with the oscillation of the swing. "Precisely because of the fact that you don't know."

She scoffed. They were friends, but not the sort that were actively affectionate towards each other.

"Kaho? You called him the violinist who quit. Why do you think he revels in his pessimistic realism?"

She frowned. "Labeling comes naturally when you are not associated with someone. Perhaps the judgment was hasty."

"Or perhaps it's an association that forms by instinct," he said. "Can't be helped that it's easier to give up entirely, that it'd be a failure of your own volition. Better a quitter than a failure. But it's also that music is honestly not all the fulfillment on this Earth."

"It used to be."

And it had. He had spent all his spare hours practicing, purging his schedules of extraneous commitments precisely so that he would possess those hours. He had been at peace with this arrangement, a consistent stream of improvement, without impetus or shortcuts. He, of all people, understood the cultivation of genius from talent. He understood its sacrifices, the commitment it necessitated, and he had always been completely subservient to the mindset. So perhaps this was why she was so unsettled. He had uncloaked the sanctum of musical competency to her by the far less glamorous route of practice, merging this with the beauty of the music in itself. He, who had brought the music to her, slowed to walk in her wobbly strides in the midst, was everything precious and emotive in the music. And he had decided not to return.

Then he tried to explain, staring down at a boxed plate's worth of pancakes (courtesy of Alfred) quickly getting greased and soggy.

"Kaho, I know you don't agree. For me music has become an empty lull to tons of audiences who will marvel or sleep or praise or criticize. They will return home to lives, to relationships, to thoughts and feelings. But every spare moment we diminish our lives to augment our expertise, to create emotion through technique. There is a reason why it's called a performance. On the stage I don't feel much of anything."

It struck her, then. The image of a figure alone on stage, distanced as it had always been. Spotlights were harsh; so selective in their choices and fickle in commitment. There were recognition that dwindled prolonged beyond its years. He was at his prime, and still, he had stood alone. He worked with a team, one that dispersed for his commendations, the silent workers. So little for which to complain - but with or without strength, it still remained an awfully long time to go unaccompanied.

"It's not about relearning or loss of skill for me – terrifying, yes – but about how empty music is with sole practice and performance. It's meaningless for me this way. There's no emotional connection in this career for me. I don't revel in sharing the music, or in its supposed emotion," he paused.

She pushed herself off the ground again – it was much more effortless when she was younger, when her body wasn't weighted down by memory and weariness. She did things slower as she grew, thinking and formulating opinions, words, to root herself onto stable reality. In time she had gained some of his calmness, and she had took on the heaviness in the world as he had, years before her. There was no hope for complete understanding; but she had always catalogued the frequencies of his voice.

"Music has been the one thing that mattered the most for a long time. There is no life outside of it. It is a reflection of life and not life itself, not in the way it ate away at my relationships and emotions. It's a break, and it's something I'd like to do, to stop and become a person free from the shackles of the violin. And to try to understand that, hopefully, there is a life and a person outside of ceaselessly repeating a career rooted in music."

"You know, that's the most I've heard you speak in ages."

When he glanced at her she had leapt from the swing at its maximum displacement, landed with only the slightest wobble, and wound her arms around his neck. All this in a few moments, and she had drawn closer, closing in on their distance with countenance. His admiration was silent. "I'm glad. And I'm sorry that you have to feel this way." She pressed a kiss against the scar that ran down the length of his face. "It'd be nice to meet your music-free alter ego. But for the record, you are more than the violin. The beauty in your music is not borne solely out of practice. I think it is reflective."

"I asked you because I was afraid. I wanted to be convinced that there was more to life than music. I thought that if I didn't then you'd slip away altogether. Still, I wonder sometimes if this attraction is only out of music, and that I have already lost you in giving music up. It shouldn't frighten me as much it does."

There was silence, and embarrassment. Len ducked his head. She stared back for a moment, grasping for straws and trying not to stutter with joy, the sort of irreverence that challenged the gravity of the situation. So she let the smile fill her face, let the color bleed into the apples of her cheeks, and let loose her voice.

"Hey. I once tried to rationalize our relationship."

He couldn't help but grin. "Heaven help you."

And she smiled back. She had tugged hard enough to earn a relenting (albeit dry) glance as they perched atop a spinning disc. The children had long gone, but the ghost of their laughter seemed to propel the disc. And she thought if they could just remain in this momentum forever she would find reason in the universe.

"I know, right? I thought perhaps because you showed me that musical skill was attainable. Then I thought it was because you'd assumed the role of a villain and inducted me into the industry - yeah! Then I wondered that perhaps we had much in common because of violin. Stop laughing, I know better. We are not soul mates. There are many others that I would've fallen in love with." She mused.

"Yeah. I'm kind of glad that you beat my soul mate to it, though."

It was not the world pitted against them. They did not understand each other, not in the instant way in which so many successful relationships were characterized by. They are full of remorse. Fights and squabbles lay far ahead of them. Still, still, still, there are always the exceptions. The few crazy people bold enough to achieve something to encourage legions of the rest to do exactly the same.

"I love you."

And they'll never quite be perfect for each other.

She smirked. "I know. About time you said it, too."


	4. Autumn

_Autumn _

_All the world's a stage._

_Hino Kahoko enters stage left, veiny and thin and red, still newborn despite all her years. The streets are layered and littered with the same delicate beauty, each crumbling into dissonance under the tread of commuters in their plain black loafers. By no divine right was she chosen and elevated by powers of the wind. It simply came, and her privilege were few matched by the numerous hopefuls who harvested hopes more significant than their crumbled ends. _

_The playwright always plays favourites. _

ii.

Relief accompanies one certain of their own maturity. It's such an acute awareness of past failings that soothe the existing.

- Or, at least, this theory was being argued (albeit one-sidedly) as she drew her bow over the violin. Hino knew few had the dexterity to maneuver criticisms and sharp exchanges on the human psyche, but the old man did so with ease. He bounded over the length of darkened living room, adorned with luxuriously deep colours. He expostulated with ardor.

"It's easy to overestimate," the man leaned over, frowning. "You clench your fists and insist on your ability to achieve it, to stick through, to honor your promise. But these petty acts commit themselves to being destroyed by circumstance. Pretty soon, you've met someone else. You've a new job offer."

"None of such nonsense I've actually experienced before, though," the man admitted after a beat.

Hino stopped. "Many theories call into question the need for exceptions,"

It was true; she had believed she could win out the irksome notes of the piece. There was nothing wrong with dynamic or technique, but they snagged plainly. Promising an outcome seemed only the guarantees of the foolishly confident.

"Your technique seems fine," the man said as she went through the piece again, then snapped back into combat-ready argumentative form. "I suppose you feel that you are entirely warranted to argue your case in promises?"

She was all too aware of her puerility as she smiled. In some ways a response came easy. A worthy one entirely eluded her.

By contrast, the man determinedly channeled disagreement and sarcasm. He was barely visible against the grey of the sky, having a figure so imposing the shadows never quite cleared of his face – which was, on closer inspection, rather handsomely adorned with deep-set grey eyes. Hino never understood the flickering of emotions in eyes that the literary world so often psychoanalyzed, but his were like the rest of his body, and that was easier to read – full of restless energy and ardor against wrinkles. His hands twirled and tapped walking sticks with intense dexterity.

"Well?" he demanded.

"You know, I don't think you're _quite _cranky enough." This utterance came from the third companion, entering the room, smoothing a hand through fluffy white hair.

"I need foolish philosophies," he insisted, authoritative. And then looked sheepish.

Hino paused, checked her heavy scoresheets. Eight hours of practice, lessons at the conservatory, and now this. It was a curious arrangement—the instructors probably had much to say on the use of her time ("enough has been wasted")—but curious enough in its refusal to subsist.

"I'm not sure I agree," she murmured as she drew the violin once more. She'd forgotten the feeling of an unmarked chin. "At least I would like to believe that some promises are kept."

"People are entirely deluded of their own strength," her companion retorted. "They are either soaring with raw psyche or obsessive over failings."

_Numerous failings_, Hino thought. It remained unvoiced – such a de facto statement went better unsaid.

"Is it always a case of extremities, though?" she asked lightly.

"Preference," the man responded. He paused for a moment in seeming consideration. When his head popped upwards again it was filled with a different manic light.

"Horrid," the man said now, his attention having shifted. He had in the space of a few notes sunken down onto a couch and was now peering up at Hino's violin with great intensity. "You're all muddled with thought. It _shows._"

"I thought the point was to experience and feel. You channel what is genuine." Hino said. She had parroted his words from less than three days ago. It was evidently flawed, because the man was shaking his head with alarming dissent.

"But not from the petty confines of your pathetic life!" he snapped, rolling his eyes. This prompted his female counterpart to cluck comfortingly in the general direction of Hino.

"Don't worry, dear. He's fond of his soliloquys," the lady grinned.

"Trying to make yourself think of something rarely bring any good. You can't present your own shallow emotions to the audience. Especially with that suspiciously quixotic story."

He met her eyes. "Yes," he conceded with an eye-roll. "The culmination of experience and your personal emotions that brings forth interpretation. But that's a terribly narrow way to limit your experience."

"That's right, dear, Fred is such a fixated bore. It'd be terrible if all we heard in music was such balderdash."

"Astrid said it," he agreed, alarmingly triumphant. "You respect your music and its composer, and the intelligent of the audience. It's not your job to impose them with delirious recounts of personal joy and whirlwind romances. Which means," he paused. "Just play the music. For now."

She sighed and played another couple of bars, by which time the dual battling areas of concentration had entirely crumbled and drew a blank. There was simply everything else, and moving hands.

"You've got it, dear." The lady said.

Hino sighed. "I'd hope so."

"Playing takes more than your petty love for it," the man snarled. "Now get out."

The man was whimsical; his commands demanded for obedience. In another descriptor it may have been subservience. So like a doormat Hino packed her things and prepared to leave. She thanked her companions.

"The same story," again he rolled his eyes. With a leap he bounded up and swung the unlocked door open.

"Goodbye, darling," the lady whispered in undertone. "And ignore Fred, he's always been crazy."

"Astrid's always been right," he agreed, reaching out to briefly hug Hino. "Goodbye, child."

Despite the blast of chilling air she smiled. The strange couple radiated endearment, and as brusque as the man behaved Hino was rather accustomed to the queer occupants of London. The brevity of her stay hadn't cut out the array of these characters. She gathered the swaths of her trench coat about her waist and let out a puff in the cool air. The streets were lined with a strange sort of coolness, in the prime of a season she didn't entirely recognize.

Such cognitive abilities were fixated upon the lone, familiar figure by the streetlamp.

x

Falling into Tsukimori's arms came easily. The passage of time allowed clumsy elbows to work into familiarity. There used to be prolonged distance – time had taken care of that too.

He wasn't one for superfluous pleasantries – but she didn't quip in cheerfully as per job description. Then again their polarities have melded closer together.

Briefly, she recounted Fred's latest monologues. Fred had turned a subject of both interest and caution in their conversations. They had conceded that he'd pick her up after her visits to Fred's apartment. Somewhere the objective of her safety had evolved, but they hadn't argued about the reason yet – and hence it, being existent, loomed unconsciously over the walk home.

"He agrees with Astrid all the time. They met on opposing ends of a hullabaloo of sorts and he ended up in full consensus with her," Hino told Tsukimori. "I don't think much has changed. It's quite sweet, really."

"And I suppose I'll have to tell my grandchildren that I first fell asleep on the shoulder of their grandmother."

He sighed.

Hino looked at him. "That's a bit presumptuous."

"And you're assuming I'm talking about you," Tsukimori responded, a rare hint of teasing creeping into his tone.

"Fred says that my life is only petty and pathetic." She replied.

"I think lives are shallow and people do a great job of complicating things for themselves," he said. "There simply _is._"

"I don't think it discounts the value of experience."

"Yeah."

x

Her apartment was a long walk away from Fred's labyrinth of identical, narrow alleys. Navigation required saintly patience.

They stumbled into her apartment late. This apartment was often darkened and dank, but she probably enjoyed its residence because of the little time she spent in it, because she didn't feel unassuaged anxiety when she played violin. And she had traveled many leagues to close in upon their distance. Strange that he too had decided for some semblance of permanency in an orchestra. His career would continue, but for now, they were both staying.

They unwrapped themselves of the layers imposed by the weather. This was not yet so familiar that they had a comfortable routine, but tea was brewed and Hino brought the violin to her chin again. The apartment was colder than Fred's, which was all decked in furs and velvets.

While Hino practiced (trying to employ Fred's confusingly detailed specifics), Tsukimori plainly disappeared into the kitchen. By the time her back muscles were knotted and roiling with numbness, there was soba noodles on plates.

"Huh." Hino surveyed the layout. "I guess the inability to cook is not meant to be a personality trait, after all."

He shrugged. "You haven't tasted it yet."

Hino swooped down to twirl a forkful of noodles into her mouth. She smiled.

"I should probably stick to violin?" Tsukimori offered dryly.

"So self-deprecating," Hino grinned.

"Just well-adjusted," he retorted.

"I think it tastes," she paused. "It tastes fine."

"Fine, like yourself."

"No, fine, like mediocre," Hino laughed.

§ _They didn't always talk. Mio and Nao were not interested in their silent exchanges, just in the fact of their unlikely proximity. Perhaps such conversations were hard to imagine. They were hard to remember, because – _You scarcely speak, _Hihara remarked when he walked into their practice room. _Are you two okay? _The pair had been sitting in silence too stale for his returning welcome. So Hino was surprised when he responded for the both of them. _Good, _Tsukimori said. _

_Later, when Hihara left, he sank back onto the piano bench where they had been interchangeably playing violin, talking, and then (truthfully, mostly) doing nothing. It was not unpleasant. Very little expectation was to be demanded of an acclaimed violinist and his former competitor. He was discomfited, and spoke forcefully. _I don't know what I'm doing here.

_Truthfully, neither did she. So she was careful. _I don't think you have to know.

I don't agree, _he snapped. _

Tsukimori-kun, _Hino had been quizzical, lowering her violin from her chin. _What is it?

Talk to me, _she said when he didn't respond. He directed his eyes towards the window. _Anything is fine.

Hey _– she pressed – _all these thoughts need to go somewhere.

Besides. You could talk to me before. Nothing has changed.

_That was contestable. Perhaps a wheedling high school student was not the brightest or most persuasive of speakers. And perhaps she wasn't entirely convinced._

_He gave no indication he had heard, immobile. And then: _Chocolate.

On Valentine's, everyone gives chocolate. The nature of relationship hardly matters.

That sounds nice. _Caution. _

It is usually competitive. Everyone is perfectly settled into his or her instrument and there is no reason why they do not deserve an opportunity. They dredge up hours for more merit. Even there musicians are being stifled. There are not enough places at the top. It's a way of peacekeeping, I think. One day of apologies.

_It was true. Even the talented owes some to those less so. They both knew that it was not his case. In the most competitive and competent of players he simply made little mistakes. He rarely lost out – this was established. But somewhere there were more, perhaps souls just like his. And by curious misfortune they had enough virtue to amongst the best, but not enough. _

It hardly matters to me. I…don't often speak with them. One rarely has time. You realize that the errors in playing from those at the bottom are almost negligible, and rarely fundamental – they are good musicians. They are talented. And they are dedicated. But they don't fly close enough to perfection.

Kahoko-chan. Your errors. They're – almost – negligible.

_It is autumn; the open window ushers in leaves dramatically. To cushion a fall, or to set up the setting as fall. The gold were contenders, and she imagined evaluators of beauty, photographing Albania. This beauty was never quite existent outside of the melancholy. She couldn't detach emotion. _

_Was she angry? No; he was being heartwarmingly candid. Was she sad? She had already been to begin with. Was she happy? No; and she was glad. It was not meant to be easy. _

Thank you, _she said._

§ _How it happened, and what came of it – they debated this, they with their theories, curious music students. Perhaps the two had walked so dangerously close, they couldn't emerge without the other. Or perhaps, they were one of the rarities, one intended only for the other._

§ _Tsukimori does not support the theory. _With due respect _he said. _Affections can come easily, and from the strangest of people. It is a choice.

_They walk the way all through his vacation as per unspoken arrangement. (They don't understand each other, but they are building their instincts so they one day might) The sun has never shone brighter. And the ground has never been colder. _

§ _Something had happened; and no one had gained a foothold on it. _

Tsukimori was convinced to stay the night.

She had always made accommodations of propriety. At the moment it was the futon that sat in the middle of living room. The apartment boasted a drawer of his things, traces of his neat stacking (most prominently in untouched newspaper stacks), photographs hurriedly traced as Hino rose to her 4 AM routine.

He frowned. "This is risky."

"Not as risky as walking home at one a.m. Your concert is in the evening," she argued. "It's not ideal, but still time to practice."

He nodded, running a towel through his damp hair. The sight of him in T-shirt and trousers were getting increasingly familiar, she mused to herself. They were so determinedly working themselves into a routine, that she yearned to preserve its simplicity. Instead she stood dumb against the hardwood floor, willing her arms not to reach forward. The allure of the night was soon dissipating to day. Romanticisation could not continue.

"I think we should reconsider Friday nights like these," she told him finally, settling next to him as he stared at the blank TV screen. "I appreciate your company, but it's hardly beneficial for your career. You need rest and practice too."

"It makes sense. Though that would leave communication by... phone calls," he said. "Hey. I don't mind coming, honestly."

She had teased him with the notion that he was - finally - cultivating a sense of fun. Now Hino felt a strange twist at her heart. It was not unfamiliar. Often, even, in moments where she tapped unsent texts before heading towards practice. When she heard of hip independent cafés and instead hurried home, swinging mittened hands. Already she was eating dinner alone on the weekends - en route to the apartment, a trail of fairytale breadcrumbs dotting an escape route to trace.

"About that," Hino said. "I really am grateful. But I've been thinking," she trailed off, averting her eyes. On retrospect, it was rather telling a giveaway, but all foolish propositions are one and the same.

"Would you like to discontinue periodic dates and obligations," he asked flatly.

"Just for a bit. I'd hate to impede on your career—"

"—I told you, I don't mind—"

"—and I, too, need to redouble my efforts. I know that you've made a lot of time from your schedule, but I hope you'll understand."

"That you still have a long way ahead comparatively and you need to accelerate to get ahead?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Music is a gift, and this career is to be chased rather than built. It will still be a relationship, I promise, not a – I couldn't do that."

"You know, I like the way things are now. It's good."

"Not to me." Hino responded quietly.

Tsukimori was silent.

"Are you angry?"

He shook his head. "I respect that."

Hino looked down. It was a mistake – she would miss him, but they were close enough from being distanced. Music was not less important than their relationship.

"I'm sorry."

"No," Tsukimori responded. Hino felt his arm threading around her shoulders. She leaned into him reflexively, and wondered how she was going to redirect these instincts. For that moment she caved, tucking her head under his chin. His warmth was surprising. They had changed, after all. "Don't be."

"…I love you." – was it a declaration or was it compensation? She couldn't tell.

"Better not, or you won't be able to disentangle yourself," he teased, and then sighed at Hino's expression. He pressed a hand against the side of her face. "Oh. Me too."

iii.

"I love you," she had told him, again, over the phone. He had murmured it back to her, all the while lengthening the distance between them. Still they had both meant the utterance, because they rarely spoke it. They hadn't said it this time – the difference it made, even if they hadn't changed.

So why was she here? Why was she alone? – Alone, combating the smell of disinfectant, drab whitewashed walls and long winding corridors, struggling to move with a sluggish pace, IV hooks and emergency rooms. She couldn't see the beauty in the single potted plant. And when she reached out the leaves were limp and plastic. She was alone. The floor was empty, the morning outside too lovely for illness.

The corridors were cold. She was cold too. And tired, and having a raging headache.

And above all, she wasn't the one. She wasn't the one flung from the passenger's seat, the one injured. She was alone because Tsukimori was, too. She was alone because she had not been driving. She had not swerved to avoid pedestrians. And he was in the other side of the door, the operation lights devilishly neon. It did not flicker, not in the way her hope was. Because she was still thinking about herself, loathing the fact at the same time, painfully aware of the next appointments that waited as the time wore on, while in her mind's eye the car skidded and rolled down the treacherous slopes, falling falling falling. It had been ten at night – now three, the morning too lovely for accidents – and still. In a concert gown too rich and long, hair falling apart, makeup intact but old – she still had not cried, and wondered why.

They hadn't been arguing. They had not argued for two years, running out of time for trivial misunderstandings as careers accelerated. They were fine – fine like herself and not fine like mediocre. It still felt like a lie, because he had not held up his end of pretense, and now slews of uniformed men interrogated her.

_Parents? _They were in Japan. She was to blame.

_Siblings? _Nonexistent. She was to blame.

_Friends? _He did have friends. They were in Japan. They were on world tours. They were in Vienna. She was to blame.

_Others? _She was the other one. She was to blame, it was her.

And they were both alone.

The emergency light flickered off. The edifice seemed to shudder.

x

"You know," Freddy had said, laughing from his armchair as Astrid and Hino stared. "I don't agree with the bollocks about hearing emotion in a piece. There is no emotion!"

"It is conveyed?" Astrid asked.

"No! Practiced! You can hear mechanisms ticking into the calculation of a sonata, rehearsed grace. By the end they are so rehearsed that there is no more emotion to be added."

"Have you performed before?" Astrid questioned him, rolling his eyes.

"It's a performance, and not a tell-all. There is a composer, and an interpreter that cannot stray ludicrously from his emotions. In the end emotions are only what they are, felt, and used."

"So is there emotion at all?"

Fred softened. "Put it this way. To feel an emotion you have to already possess it, no? Music is wonderful, but it is not your emotion, and your life. How could it be, when it is the very beauty milked from the essence of the former?"

x

She had been lucky many times.

She had made it to Europe. She had grown through her years without dying, blessed life and experience.

And now she was lucky again.

Only a bruised lung, two broken ribs, torn finger ligaments, varying glass scratches, bruising, etc. (_etc._) Luck is rather gracious about her generosity. They were not permanent, as temporary as babies and fading promises and the illusion of love.

She stared down at a scarred face – she'd been told they would fade, another lucky auspice – thinner and gaunter than she'd known. And she realized that it was easier when he did the talking – the machinery replaced it, skirring and humming mechanical tunes of accusation in between, a conversation entirely in undertone.

x

When he could speak again she had forgotten how a normal exchange carried itself, or how they used to speak. His eyes flickered open, the anesthesia wearing off.

"Len-kun," she said, voice hanging sad and soft against the clicks of the room. There's no space to smile, and she draws the curtains about the bed. There is a single window the filters through limpid sunlight in the morning, feeble as her greeting.

His eyes darted around the ceiling, stopped and feasted on her. "You," he said.

She could not read emotions. The residents had come in to brief him, and there was nothing left to say that he didn't already know.

"I'm sorry." – the fluorescent lights caught her eyes. He saw, again, that they were glistening. It was a strange sense of desperation, the slow plunger pushing down a lethal injection, slowly shattering her senses.

The little words they exchanged shuttered down. His eyes closed slowly. "Okay."

She had read of people broken beyond belief, of children hanging on to incubators and dredging up oxygen saturation. And before, she had fallen out of sync with its pedestrian rhythm, the tales of shattering hearts and minds following breakups. But still she had not been broken, and she wanted to be, because otherwise she was a crusading star, and it would all implode in ash.

And still, she wanted to be close by him.

"Shall I call your parents?"

"The news will likely break soon, and your fans will be heading along. Release a statement about the nature of the accident. Isn't it better if they heard it from you first?"

"I could call your manager too. Adri?"

"Kahoko-chan, could we go for a walk?" he asked, louder and more forcibly than any of his previous utterances.

"I'd feel more assured if we called your parents," she said. "And I don't think that it's a good ide—"

She caught his eye and relented.

x

It's a corporate slab of ground, lined with unhealthily bright grass and potted plants, decked around industrial fountains, and smatterings of those in wheelchairs. There wasn't much, but the shades of autumn remained. A subtle fringe, oddly comforting.

They walked alone, apart. There was nothing to say, so noncommittally she asked whether he was all right. He ignored that, letting the statement hang with head down, abashed at its own tactlessness. She asked about his schedule – that, too, paused awkwardly, terminated.

"I'm sorry," she settled, softly. "I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry this happened to you."

It strikes her that a movie had discontinued the usage of "sorry" in the romance. So perhaps they never had much to begin with.

"It wasn't a serious crash."

She glared. "It's like telling me about an affair that lasted six months instead of a year."

He chuckled dryly. "Now just how did you find that out?"

"It was all over the tabloids." She deadpanned.

"I promise there's just Adri." He returned the banter reluctantly.

And Adri was heavily pregnant with her fourth child. The joke was not remotely amusing to either, and the atmosphere stayed sombre. It had been two years, and rare was it that they had stayed somewhere long enough to meet the eye of an acquaintance, much less -

"You do need to contact Adri, you know. Tell her about recovery and surgery, minimalize the collateral damage and all – Len-kun, you already know this."

"I do."

"Then maintaining credibility is a matter of responding quickly."

The air was chilly, a veil of fog and mist blown across, smearing away the sharper veneers, dotted with the blur of numerous penumbras. She stared back into his eyes, uncharacteristically widened.

"I know," he said.

"What are you trying to prove? It's your career. It's the violin."

"It's the violin," he repeated. "It's just the violin, Kahoko."

"What do you mean, it's just the violin? Are you all right?"

"Have you watched any of my recent concerts?"

"I have," she responded, nonplussed. They rarely discussed concerts now, but she still watched from her phone, backstage before performances, en route to practices. Newspapers in their storefront positions fluttered, flustered and boasting their news of an _enfant terrible_ haunting the concert halls. The reviews littered the mind, far too many aficionados and critics lining their entitled opinions (as often ejaculated during bitter feuding), far too diversified for frequent monitoring.

"What did you think?"

"Your reviews were good."

"Is that what you thought too?"

The leaf had blown away, and in its wake there was mourning. There were places that not everything visits, there were lands that migrating swans did not stop by.

Staring into his eyes from her vantage point, she struggled to remember the last time he was close enough to be touched, and the soundless, keening guilt struck.

She faltered.

"Len-kun."

Folk tales – they loved the winds, they loved the many directions it blew the little pliable leaf. Now one fluttered off in departure of a distant land.

"There is nothing more than playing two hundred shows in staunch repetition. The broad repertoire can only do so much for you."

She heard the ghost of her own helpless voice so many years ago, hanging a thin wisp, backed into a corner - "What do you mean?"

"Do you think we invest too much emotion into performances? It's about the technicality. You could convince yourself of playing with emotion," he said. "But it's about the nuance, amidst conceived notions of emotional fiestas. It's much less the expression of self than mechanical emptiness, a machine programmed to impress, a tune designated to entertain."

In movement there is only abiding, and in the propagation of wind there is only following.

"It's music. Your whole life is centered around it." She said, at once acutely aware of the sheer ludicrousness of the gown, impractical against the morning fog. It is awfully cold.

"It is a lie." He said. "It is a performance."

"It brings hearts together," she implored. "You, of all people—"

"—It also rips them apart!" he snapped abruptly, more livid than she had ever remembered. "When was the last time that you have even spoken about something more than your career? And your parents?"

"We're just busy," she said, quavering. "They understand. It's temporary."

"Why not?"

This is how they argue: they argue only when alone and apart.

"Come on," he was exasperated now. "When was the last time you have called your parents? If you call them, do you converse with them? Is it ever free of excuses of concerts, of how busy you are? When was the last time you belonged to the rest of the public were part of you?"

"I don't need to be. Music is different."

"So is a plumber. So is a writer. So is the president. Elevating music into the higher order is foolish and presumptuous."

"Are you calling me presumptuous?"

It was frightening. They had barely argued before, never heated and she had never felt the cold fury rise against her, and nor the resounding force that rose against.

"No. In the end we are all existent. As if music is reason enough to stop living."

"That's disrespectful to your own profession. Music breathes life. Sacrifices are necessary. It's not superiority."

"You are not the instrument. Music doesn't take precedence over everything."

"There are _priorities_." She retorted. "I don't understand how you could be so irresponsible over something this important."

"This is as much about a balance as it is about metaphysics. Why are you so angry?"

"I care about you!"

At some point they had reached a clearing where the gardens had tapered off. Instead the garden had tapered off, and a patch of grass underlined hard grey masonry. He stared back, his expression cold, _again_, the way it hadn't looked upon her for years – and it radiated dully through her.

"Do you?"

Swift incisions were always cuttingly precise.

"Yes," she whispered.

The leaves were making a move – perhaps they wanted to stay on the untouched grounds, perhaps to invade its greenery with an army of fallen friends, but the wind was clearing it. A roar in any direction and towards that they fluttered, defenseless even in their masses.

iv.

After all this time, all it comes to is this.

It has grown, and ballooned since we had last spoken. Now we speak in parallel languages.

"I hate that you're even considering throwing violin away. You, with so much prepossessed talent and ability. To stop is an insult and embarrassment for the industry."

"Don't kid yourself. Even you are dispensable."

I have not seen his face for years; have not seen the contours and exhaustion, his confusing and fear in the sharp focus that I do now, that it's no longer open and receiving.

"The musician by which music pours through hardly matters. The difference to me is that I want my life back."

And I think—days playing in the cathedral, and his Grammys and awards. The segues and compositions he would hum when he was the one to lean in to me, the music of the night's crickets, summer's wind wiping apart our distance.

"I don't know what you mean," I say shakily. "Music is your life. It is all there is."

There is music everywhere. The sound of sunshine against ice cream. Protesting flowers yanked up by the ear. Perhaps one day I would have a daughter beautiful enough to forgo this offense. The sound of grim and innocent joy – the sound of childhood summers. Earning an elusive laugh, unrefined in its rarity. Concertos. Traffic. Two times, three times, common time. All this while, I have walked with one other.

"That's all there is about you."

Is this still an argument? The momentum halts, a rising revolt without bellicosity. Len's face changes, shatters and remolds into a mask of anger and sadness.

"All there is," he repeats, dull.

Everything trembling seems placated at a lower decibel. But that's only because I can't hear it.

And when the sound breaks through the eardrums, is there anyone to blame but yourself? When the fissures and fault lines converge, and painfully human insecurities burst screaming to the surface, finally heard. Singleminded and heavyhanded with destruction. Realisations come too late. It is you. It has always been you.

"Len!"

He lungs towards the wall with hands thrown – _humans destroy_ – and then it is all reaction – _the adrenaline preceded only by a catalyst_ – and it is only lunging after, a leaf only follows the course of the wind – _but one step slower_ – the grey sky and the walls tilt into shades of a shade between black and white – _in itself a spectrum, in itself holding a porn title –_ only when somebody is running, and noticing – _watching needs to be observed _– and Len – _syllabic, poetic, utterly unpretentious _– hands smashed against the wall – _more than the violin he plays –_ once more, once more - _and if it doesn't hurt - _the motion of his entire existence plunged against the wall – _sacrilege, there are other ways the heart rules the mind, broken bones _– he is crazy, he who each fiber of being is a miracle, the same hands that enveloped mine - It is not about him - _the body is never a vessel_ – _to hurt is a crime –_ forgivably the wall is only its concrete, emotionless – _he is full of emotion, he sinks _– don't do this – _I love you__– _don't, please – _I love you —_ and once again – _the arms are strange things, hormone-releasing contraptions the enamored cannot run free of _– both surrounded surrendered – _the ground is cold and the wall is cold and the air is cold and the leaves have left._

One last dance: A whirl, the air roiling with agitation, and the ground is cold and the wall is cold and the air is cold and the leaves have left. There is nothing left, an alleyway of looming walls and dying embers from an unknown flame, doused with unknown spurts of water. The dying embers smoke, already paying heed to the cool bleakness of the weather. The gold all fades.

We sit this way, him angled against the wall away from harm, hands limp, restrained. It is my own hands around them, perhaps a redeemer or perhaps a comrade confused, in need of warmth and compass – _there is a hierarchy of needs_ – and how inexplicable it is that my mind is blank enough to forget the argument. I have not sat so achingly close before. Despite everything, my heart aches. I close the distance, leaning in and feeling the rise and fall of his chest, defunct but still operational. When I pull him closer we both wince.

"No, stay here."

"You have three broken ribs and a bruised lung. It's got to hurt."

There is no argument in plain fact.

"Stay here." The crook of his neck is unharmed, still a forehead rest, fitted and measured. Years of searching, eight years, and

Exhaustion hangs, nonexclusive free commodity abundant in the seams of pockets. In the end, it doesn't matter. We are musician and violinist, human and animal, mankind and soul, microorganisms in the galaxy. And still, we are bigger and stronger than other microorganisms. We are in-betweens, caught in the unsung range of the extremities of the most minuscule of creatures and the vastest of galaxies. We do not in our being matter; we matter because we choose to be.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too."

The galaxy is silent. Even with the slivers and rips of galaxies, the cosmic entities numerous and massive, they are close enough only to see the light and never to converse. It is so quiet. It has always been this quiet. It will always go so undisturbed.

"Kahoko?"

"Yes?"

"Marry me."

"Yes."

There's nothing more to say.


End file.
